Small Moments II
by nemo1934
Summary: A series of one-shots. Butters has strange feelings for a teacher, Ike gets a motorcycle... The good times roll.
1. You're NOT a Bad Student

_Hey guys! I'm back after a long stay-away. These one-shots are based on dreams, the most natural story-tellers. _

* * *

"You're **Not** a Bad Student"

_Butters, late junior year_

When he parked his car, Butters was surprised to see distant figures clumped around a barbecue over by the jungle gym. Come to think of it, the parking lot was fuller than it ought to be on the Saturday before finals and summer vacation. But Butters was too shy to go investigate, and anyway he was almost late for a sorely-needed appointment. He walked straight to the Math room.

"Hey Ms. Calco," he said, easing the door open.

Ms. Calco looked up quickly from behind her big desk. All her movements were quick and precise, like a little bird's. Butters had a warm spot in his heart for her. "Hey! Butters," she said, looking back down at her papers. "Pull up a seat."

Ms. Calco's room had always been full of her personal belongings: a worn-thin Oriental rug on the floor, stuffed animals on the cupboards, plants in colorful pots. She'd often brought in flowers, too, to lively up the monochrome-gray room-even though she didn't make much money. It always delighted her if Butters snuck in before class with some more flowers to supplement hers. He didn't think he did it for her reaction, but then he never would have done it for any other class.

Despite all that, they had never learned much about each other. And it wasn't until now, seeing everything packed up into cardboard boxes, the room barren and gray again, that Butters felt a twinge of sadness about her moving to Michigan next month. (His mom said she was going to teach in a private school there.)

Butters pulled up a seat as she cleared space on the gray desk.

"Did you notice the barbecue outside?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah. Some of the faculty put together a going-away party for me and Helga. Stern," she added. (Ms. Stern taught History. Butters had never heard her called Helga before; her last name was too apt and her presence too commanding for that.)

"Oh! Shouldn't you be there?"

"No, it's all right. We're all busy; that's why we had it here. Besides, it was a surprise party, so we didn't have time to cancel our meetings. Oh, it was so much fun. Charlie Oelher and Principal Andrews came bursting in here and... _dragged_ me out to the playground..." She waved her arms like Godzilla terrorizing Tokyo. "They had sombreros on." She laughed. "And Helga just burst out laughing. I don't know if I've ever seen her laugh!"

Butters grinned. He liked the way her voice cracked sometimes. One pause later, he wondered why he hadn't laughed too.

She gave a short sigh, then drew herself up in that precise way and said, "Anyway, what's bothering you? What would you like to review first?"

"I won't take too much of your time."

They went over his notes. Butters meant to be considerate, but as they reviewed he forgot about her party. She seemed to as well. (After about a half hour, he was telling her about an uncle he'd always thought was a beer-loving redneck, who moved to Michigan and subsequently turned out to be a really nice guy. He joked that it was thanks to getting out of the South. "And you're not even a good old boy!" he said. "Think of... The horizons are limitless for you!" She laughed.)

Then Mr. Coutts popped his head in the room and declared, "Margot? Margot, I'm headed out." They talked for a minute and he gave her his grim salute. He nodded goodbye to Butters ("Stotch.") and stepped out.

"Your party," Butters said. "I'm so sorry."

"That's fine, Butters," Ms. Calco said. "I always enjoy talking to a good student."

Butters was manifestly a bad student. He was a junior in a class for sophomores. Earlier that year, when she'd told Butters he was failing, he'd surprised himself by feeling nothing at all.

"Well. Thanks. Next time I meet a good student, I'll tell him you said that." He picked up his books.

"Oh, pff," she said, lifting her arms up off the desk and dropping them. "Yeah, right. Who got that impossible question before everyone else?"

"That was a fluke," Butters said. "I mean it. It really was."

"I believe you mean that," she said. "But it wasn't. Aaron McAllister asked if anybody ever got that question, and I said, 'Two people. If they want you to know who they are, they'll speak up.' Miss-Violet-to-You raises her hand and says, 'Ahem,'"-Ms. Calco did a little mousy Violet voice-"and everybody cries, 'What did you get?! How did you get that?!'" The Godzilla arms made a repeat appearance. Butters couldn't help but smile. "It was a hard question! That's why I left it up on the board! And by the way, what did you do while Violet got all that praise? You just sat there." Her tone of voice said, This won't do.

"No, you're not a bad student, Butters," she continued. "You really want to be, and you can be. But you got that question. You showed you cared about the class, when you brought in flowers. And most importantly, you came in here today for a review, and you talked to your teacher like a human being. Grades or not, you're no bad student. Just wait till something grabs your attention. Then your horizons will be limitless."

Butters watched her pack her briefcase, and they left together.

The night before the final, Butters had a weird dream. It was some dark place. He was vaguely certain it was Margot on camera, only he ever really saw her hands and mouth. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and, very deliberately, smoked each one of the twelve left in the pack, letting the smoke fill her lungs and breathing out slowly. The weird thing was, Butters felt as if he were doing it himself. Really. He was sure that this was no dream and he must have become Margot or something because he was definitely smoking this pack. His chest felt warmer and he shook a little from relief. Twelve cigarettes in the dream left him feeling like one in real life. Then he started moaning. It was weird. He was really fucking satisfied with these cigarettes. It was warm, actual, legitimate pleasure. Margot smiled.

When Butters woke up on the day of the final, he thought, "Shit, they're gonna find my cigarettes." He fumbled around in the sheets, looking for the pack, thinking of places to hide it, but there was nothing there. Then he realized it was just a dream, and Ms. Calco was just his teacher.

That was probably the saddest thing about Ms. Calco moving to Michigan.

* * *

_Hope you liked it. I'm sorry to anyone I left hanging on the previous Small Moments story. There was a lot of strange stuff that needed taming. But I'm back and better than ever/happier than ever to be back, baby. If you drop me a review, I'll appreciate it and try to respond. __Thanks for reading!_

_Oh, also. P.S. **Smoking is very bad for you.** I don't do it, and I don't recommend anyone start. _


	2. Señorita Mano (Ike's Bike)

**Señorita Mano (Ike's Bike)**

_Kenny, Ike, Kyle, Stan, senior year  
_

"Down the road there's euphoria / Señorita Mano / She strokes it long and hard / 'cause she don't know what she got." -Potatoe

* * *

"Kenny, I have the greatest news in the world!" Ike screamed, the second Kenny picked up the phone. Kenny jerked the phone away from his ear with a grimace. It was too early for yelling. Who the hell called _before_ school? Well, Ike Broflovski, for one, probably the most enthusiastic eighth grader Kenny had ever heard of. By contrast, Kenny, a half-asleep senior now, was just barefoot in his faded bathrobe in the grimy McCormick kitchen. He couldn't help but laugh.

"Okay, Ike. What is it?"

"I got the iBike and it's awesome!"

"Oh, no. Shit, you did?" Kenny had expected Apple to branch out after Steve Jobs died, but it had still been a shock when they revealed their first foray into transportation technology, the sleek, white, electric-powered iBike. "Ike's bike, huh?"

"Kenny, it's sooo cool. You gotta let me come pick you up."

"What? Why me?"

"'Cause, I wanna pull up with a senior on it. Duh," Ike said, unusually candid.

Kenny hesitated, maybe just to seem authoritative, maybe just out of exhaustion. In any case, he didn't really need to think. After a pause, he said, "Well, shit, son, you better come pick me up then."

"Yes!" Ike said, like a fist-pump. "Okay! I'll be there!" He hung up.

The Broflovskis were probably one of the few families in town that could afford one of those things; their dad was a lawyer. Meanwhile, Kenny saw, his own dad was in his mechanic's outfit, already engaged in his first job of the day: stealing his son's breakfast. Kenny jerked the cereal bowl away from him and sat down.

"What the hell?" his dad asked, mouth full of milk.

"**My** cereal."

His dad swallowed. "Well, you need a nutritious breakfast, son. Fry up some eggs or something. But I was asking about the call. Who was that?"

"Ike got a new motorbike."

"Broflovski? Kyle's little brother?"

"Yep."

"Like a motorcycle? Isn't he too young to drive one of those things?"

Kenny froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. Shit, Ike was _totally _too young to drive one of those things. He was thirteen. What the fuck?

"Idiot," his dad commented.

While Mr. McCormick grabbed a handful of raw Corn Flakes from the box, Kenny called the Broflovskis back twice, but there was no answer. So he got ready and went out on the porch to wait. It wasn't long before Ike swerved down the road at a million miles an hour and screeched to a halt in front of Kenny's house.

Ike yanked off his helmet with the most euphoric look on his face. "Jesus Christ!" he yelled happily.

"Jesus, Ike," Kenny murmured, stunned.

"Is it awesome or what?"

The bike was like nothing Kenny had ever seen. It was an immaculate white, with that uniquely Apple sheen. No exposed or protruding parts: it had a single, lithe, beautifully curved body, its shape like that of a dog stretching its front legs. No conspicuous logo; everyone already knew what they were looking at. Simply put, it looked like the future. Kenny saw the deep-blue seat had room for two.

"Yes, it's awesome. Now scooch over. I'm commandeering this vessel for the greater good."

"Hey! It's _my _bike."

"You're way too young to drive. And no offense, Ike, but I saw you swerving all over the road. You're gonna break your crazy neck, you... clueless... so-and-so. Sit back and let a pro show you how it's done."

"Fine. Offense taken." Stubborn as he was, Ike did as he was told. When he tried to hand Kenny the helmet, Kenny gently pushed it back to him. He could always come back, but the world would truly be a darker place without Ike Broflovski.

The control panel was a mystery: no ignition, no buttons, just a white, perfectly smooth surface with the Apple logo. Kenny scratched his head.

"How did you even start this?" he asked.

"Hm. You're the expert, apparently." Ike feigned disinterest and looked out across the street, arms folded over the helmet.

"Okay. What should I do with my backpack?" Kenny asked.

"Just go kangaroo style," Ike suggested.

Once they got going, Kenny had to admit that it was hard to drive well on an Apple motorbike. The temptation to dick around was just too strong. He loved the lightness and flexibility of it, its silence, and the mysterious control panel, and the tires so thin they felt like air. As soon as they hit the highway, he summed it up in a scream for the wind: "I'M DRIVING AN APPLE MOTORCYCLE, BITCH! AAAHH!" He gunned it and they fucking flew. He ended up driving crazier than Ike, swerving in and out of lanes, going too damn fast.

"I just got it this weekend," Ike yelled into the wind as they slowed for the traffic light.

"Do you have a name for it?" Kenny yelled back.

"Señorita Mano!"

Kenny just about ran off the road. No. There was no way in _hell_ Ike had named this bike Señorita Mano. There was just no way. "Do you know that song?!"

"Huh?" Ike said.

"Nothing."

Kyle was flustered when they drove up. "Ike, I called you, like, twenty times! You missed the bus!"

"I know," Ike said cockily. "I ignored your calls."

For Kyle there was too much chewing out to do, and too little time. He walked the bike to the parking lot with them, ranting all the while. Ike, of course, was being completely useless. He hadn't brought any of the stuff you were supposed to, so you could wrap up your bike to protect it from the elements. He just sat there on the seat waiting for his friends to show up, looking so smug you couldn't help but forgive him. Kyle resourcefully reached in his backpack and brought out a big, empty, plastic bag for computer wires. He used that to start wrapping one of the wheels.

Kenny knew that Kyle really believed in what he was telling his little brother about responsibility. He wasn't reckless like Kenny. He also felt pretty sure that Kyle had never noticed how much he sounded like his mother when he ranted. Relative to Kenny, Kyle had always been high-strung.

But it was only after the whole thing with Stan that he had become so safety-conscious, especially where his little brother was concerned.

Kenny was just thanking Kyle on Ike's behalf for wrapping up the bike, when Stan showed up with his hair cut in the old style, just smiling, like, "Hey, what's up."

Of the three kids clustered around the bike, Ike was the only one who seemed unaffected by Stan's sudden appearance. Ike belonged to a class that really only knew what Stan had done, not who he had been. Kyle got real quiet, with a funny look on his face.

Stan looked healthy. His hair was cut short like it had been before. There were no bags under his eyes. God, he was almost... beautiful. (Was that a gay feeling in his pocket or was Kenny just happy to see him?) Stan seemed amused that everyone had been reacting so strongly to his being back. He didn't appreciate that it was the first time anyone had seen him in a year, and that for some of them it was awakening a lot of strong, old emotions.

He said, "What's up, guys," with a little laugh.

Kyle shrunk back a bit. His weird reaction surprised Kenny and cracked Stan up. Kenny couldn't tell if Kyle was faking hyperbolically or being serious (though it was obvious Stan was faking).

**Ugh. **Kenny remembered guiltily and against his will and as briefly as he could. One day junior year, Stan just left and didn't show up for school. Over sophomore year, there had been an obvious change despite Kyle's panicked, frantic supportiveness: Stan had stopped smiling or reaching out, pretty much stopped sleeping, bought a lot of drugs from Kenny's former hookup (whom Kenny had introduced him to). No one could understand it. Anyway he vanished junior year and officially became a missing person.

Okay. So then they found him a week later, because he was screaming, in this cash-bought motel room in the bloody-ass water-filled bathtub, overwhelmed by the mess and agony he'd made of his forearms, like extremely hot pokers shoved up his wrists. He threw out his vocal cords for a month afterward. Went to a psych clinic and rehab in another state. Cut off comms with South Park for a year. And before that he had been the best fucking guy! (Once, after Chemistry, he had joked that he didn't have original sin; he was a product of the stork: stoichiometry.) Just vanished off the map, sort of like Kenny dying. _Listen_, Kenny thought then and now. _Some people just burn out. Not possessed by anything remarkable, not geniuses, not special, just get to fucking around. Nobody's fault. Stan paid a price. Too bad. Everybody misses somebody and it's nobody's fault. _Stan hadn't really been gone, just gone from them. Well. Sort of. He had always been present in whatever music Kyle and Kenny had listened to.

Suddenly he was back in the flesh.

Realizing he would have to speak for himself and Kyle, Kenny said, "Hey, man. It's great to see you."

Stan asked casually, "What'd you guys do last night?"

Kyle of course didn't respond. So Kenny sort of addressed the group, going for broad, relatable statements. "Man, I actually got a ton of work done last night. Like, a lot. Which was good, because I've done absolutely nothing for so long. It was really refreshing."

Stan laughed half-heartedly.

Ike was still perched on his bike. "I didn't get anything done," he put in, self-conscious. "I never do."

Stan turned to him and said sincerely, "Ike, I've missed you, man. How have you been?"

Kyle twitched.

Just then Kenny got a weird feeling. It had taken till senior year to come to him: he loved everyone in his grade. Lazy, drug-addled, poorly behaved, whatever. They were survivors. They'd seen what looked like glory days and they'd watched their personalities change. He knew that for most of them, if they heard that one of their peers had gotten a ton of work done some night, they'd be congratulatory and happy for them. Because deep down, bone-deep... they were tired. And that was nothing to brag about. Nothing at all. But it was relatable. Ike didn't understand. Kenny felt happy for Ike but happy for himself too.

"I'm all right," Ike said.

Stan nodded. "Um, yeah. Guys, why does Ike have a motorcycle?"

Kyle laughed, once, like snapping a rubber band. It sounded almost like a sob but wasn't. Stan had this way of casually pointing out totally ridiculous things.

"You know what he named it?" Kenny said to him.

"Oh god," Stan said. "What?"

Kyle was grinning. He already knew.

"Señorita Mano," Kenny said, and Stan burst into laughter.

"Señorita Mano" was a song that Stan and Kenny had written together when they were not much younger than Ike, for their seventh grade band, Potatoe. Needless to say, it was all about masturbation. Kenny could still remember how that song went. _Down the road there's euphoria... _Now here was Ike's dumb, totally amazing bike, which by some incredible coincidence, he had named after their song.

No one had let Ike in on the joke, and he sat there grinning nervously.

"Ike," Stan said. "Did you name your bike after jerking off?"

Ike looked embarrassed, like he hadn't expected anybody to figure that one out.

For a second, there was silence. Then Stan and Kenny cracked up. It took Kyle a second, but soon he was laughing too. Kenny had to assure Ike that that was totally cool, for the sake of his confidence.

Man, that Apple bike. You'd have thought they'd have burned out before getting around to adapting the motorbike. But here it was, and it was an awesome thing. If you think user-accessibility isn't important in a bike, you're dead wrong. You need a bike responsive to direction and dependable in all situations, and in the Apple era, you need a bike with tons of features.

Ike's slick white bike only needed one tasteful Apple logo, between the handle-bars, because everybody already knew what they were looking at: it was so beautiful, like something out of a dream.

It was Señorita Mano.


	3. The Art of Self-Destruction

"The Art of Self-Destruction"

_Bebe + Butters, mid-junior year_

"He is the head boy at the school / He is the captain of the team / He is so gay and fancy-free / And I wish all his money belonged to me! / and I wish I could be like David Watts ... / And all the girls in the neighborhood / try to go out with David Watts / They try their best, but can't succeed! / for he is of pure and noble breed. / Wish I could beee like... wish I could beeeee like..." -The Kinks, "David Watts"

* * *

The New Mexican is a cheap, currently empty bar and grill in South Park. Obama's big speech on the corner TV has no volume. Instead the stereo plays "David Watts" by the Kinks: Shelley's choice, because by 11:30, the night's about over. A fire burns in the creekstone fireplace. Out the window, a yellow moon shows a broad stretch of grass and one sculpted-metal cactus.

Shelley is behind the bar, wiping glasses with a rag, eyeing a gaggle of teenage girls in the restaurant area. From behind the bar, she can't hear their loud conversation over the music; she just gets occasional laughter. One of the girls touches another on the arm while they're all cracking up.

A dude comes in and sits down at the bar. He's dressed like a biker, but he's alone and probably middle-aged. "How's it going?" he asks a little gruffly.

Shelley looks up and nods, then looks back down at the glass, then looks up again. "I've never seen you before," she says.

"Is that a rarity here?" His smile is almost fatherly.

Shelley doesn't smile; her mouth is still twisted from flawed dental work when she was a kid. "No," she says. "But at this time of night? Noteworthy."

"I've never been here before. Just passing through."

He reads the chalk-board menu fixed to the wall above the bar. He seems unsatisfied with their options, but orders a beer and a sandwich and looks away from the TV with no real expression on his face. He doesn't seem sad, just preoccupied.

Shelley puts his beer down in front of him.

"Thanks," he says. "I'm Leb."

"Shelley."

* * *

Bebe Stevens had always been a trouble-maker. In class she felt incompetent and bored. Out of class she was constantly doing something to piss off Principal Andrews, who tried to keep a watchful eye on her. Of course the principal couldn't; South Park High served the surrounding areas, and with 1200 students, there was just too much for a principal to do. Truth be told, her job exhausted her.

This particular day, Bebe was skipping some sort of junior function going on in the gym. On her way toward the parking lot through the empty, dimly-lit halls of the senior area, she made a stop at Roscoe's office.

"Knock knock," she said.

"Hey! Bebe." He stood up slowly.

Roscoe was the school's head of security, although he was so old that if push came to shove he might just fall over. Bebe considered him one of her few friends at SPH. A year before, she had taken a chance and bribed him to keep away while she set up one of her more ambitious pranks. Turned out, he accepted payment in liquor. Ever since, she'd been bringing him booze now and then, and he'd been letting her get into whatever kind of trouble she wanted, so long as she kept the dirty details to herself.

Bebe wouldn't realize until later in life that she had just been Roscoe's enabler, not his true friend. But for now they chatted amicably in the poor light, him leaning against the door frame, her slouching and occasionally straightening her posture. This was just a social call; Bebe had already given him the goods the day before. Now she was on a mission. She excused herself.

It was an overcast day. Out in the parking lot she passed the ad for the upcoming talent show. For some bizarre reason, this laminated-paper sign had been stuck to a blow-up model of a fat little yellow man proudly holding up a red-tipped paintbrush. A ton of people had commented on his uncanny resemblance to Lard Lad from The Simpsons. Just went to show how much respect SPH had for its students' various talents.

Bebe opened the back of her red hatchback and withdrew a length of rope, which she crammed in her backpack, and a folded-up piece of cardboard, which she tucked under her arm.

Just past Roscoe's office, Principal Andrews caught up with her.

"Bebe Stevens," she said casually, walking briskly along. "You should be at the junior meeting in the gym."

"Oh? Is there one today?"

Principal Andrews looked around and sighed. Skipping class was one thing, but she knew she couldn't make Bebe attend every lecture and meeting that came to school. Disciplining Bebe Stevens was an exercise in selectivity. Instead of pressing the issue, she asked, "What have you got there, tucked under your arm?"

Bebe stopped and let the folded cardboard flop out to show the inside. It was a man-sized, painted reproduction of that Lard Lad from the parking lot. Principal Andrews eyed it warily, then looked Bebe in the eyes.

"Do you like it?" Bebe asks. "I'm gonna put it up by the cafeteria. My brother's participating in the talent show this year."

Principal Andrews had the urge to grab the sign out of Bebe's hands and hit her upside the head. Instead, she said quietly, "Stevens, you need to be careful. Your last incident, with the duct tape, already earned you a suspension. You're on thin ice."

Bebe laughed at her unfairness. "I'm just putting it in the cafeteria!"

"Listen to me," the principal said slowly, "because this applies to all your life. If you keep self-destructively asking for punishment, it will be given you."

* * *

Butters didn't have a name anymore, but he did have a few whisks for sideburns. He'd been too lazy to shave recently, and thankfully his parents hadn't been on him about it. This morning he had considered skipping the class function in the gym, but finally he'd gone ahead and sat through it. What else did he have to do?

Nobody near Butters paid him any mind or even pressed against him in the crowded bleachers. That was because nobody near him, nobody in school actually, liked him anymore. Instead of listening to the lecture, Butters stared off at the door and silently lectured himself: he was too afraid to make friends, which would not serve him well at college, and even if he hadn't been so timid, he was a terminal bore. To top all that off, he was afflicted with being gay. He'd never said as much, but probably everyone already knew. He thought it had to be written all over him somehow, and yet no one, not even his parents, had ever talked to him about it. Well, fuck them anyway. SPH students were dumb and annoying. His parents weren't exactly that way, but sometimes, when Butters really looked down inside, he wasn't sure he loved them anymore.

Butters didn't know it yet, but his months of unhappiness and self-imposed isolation had given him a mindset similar to Bebe Stevens's.

At the exact moment the speaker saw there were no more questions and officially ended his lecture, the door Butters had been staring at randomly burst open. Bebe came marching into the gym with the principal right beside her. God, Butters thought, you'd think being principal of a school of 1200 would bring out your inner disciplinarian. Instead, Principal Andrews seemed to let Bebe Stevens get away with everything.

Butters watched as Bebe hiked up her backpack and pushed her way to the middle of the crowd, which was moving slowly toward the doors like an amoeba. Once there, she whipped around her blood-red backpack and unzipped it. Then the kids behind Butters joined in the push for the exit, and he lost sight of her.

Down in the crowd, Bebe was pawing through the backpack's contents when she heard someone close by say, "Aiyo." She knew immediately it was Pig Face.

"Hey," she said. "Check it out." She held open her backpack for him to look in.

Pig Face was aptly named, because he had a shaved head and a face like a pig's, only flat, and he was short and stocky. He was also tough. He didn't care about the nickname. He was one of Bebe's partners in crime, but really Bebe would've abandoned them in an instant to live in another state.

As he looked in, Bebe overheard a snatch of conversation over her shoulder. "That kid's a serious faggot," somebody said.

She craned her head to see. "Hey, dumb fucking rednecks," she said flatly. The kids gave her a weird look but kept shuffling with the crowd and disappeared. That look was all the encouragement she needed. Handing the backpack to Pig Face, she spun around and yelled, "You don't understand shit! Gay people have it way harder than some angsty-ass Slayer fan! Yeah, I know you Todd Bernanke! Better to make fun of someone for their special-ed level intellect! Huh? What you think of that?"

Pig Face watched Bebe unemotionally. She was yelling at no one. The two kids were gone and nobody was listening to her self-righteous ranting. Bebe had once been a friendly class clown, so people still got a kick out of her pranks. But even to a pariah like Pig Face, it was clear that nobody actually liked her, except himself and the two or three guys they hung out with. Even in that group there was a lot of tension. Something about her made her not quite fit in. Other than being a girl.

And no, she wasn't a lesbian. Pig Face was the least impressed of all SPH students by the pro-queer spiel she had just whipped out. He saw her clearer than she knew. Bebe viewed herself as her own life's primary victim, and, thus victimized, identified with gays. Just now she had suggested Todd Bernanke make fun of retards instead; tomorrow, she could attack him for doing exactly that. Pig Face was the only one who saw this, because he was the smartest guy he knew.

By the time Bebe turned around, some kid was standing next to them. Butters, that was his name. Butters said, "Nice rant."

Bebe surveyed him neutrally, then gave a verdict: "Nice sideburns." (That was a nickname if Pig Face had ever heard one. And he had. His whole life.) "Don't blush," she continued. "P.F. Chang here doesn't have any body hair, right?"

"Fuck you," Pig Face obliged.

"He's as bald as his head."

Just then Butters glanced into her backpack. What he saw made his eyes widen. Bebe gestured to Pig Face and they started heading toward the exit. Butters followed like an orphan.

After they'd gone through the double outside doors, he said, "Hey, that was really cool, what you said in there."

Bebe looked at him. Instead of telling him to scram, she said, "Thanks Sideburns."

"What are you doing with that rope?" Butters asked, after looking around to make sure they were alone. Even if he hadn't known Bebe was a Bad Kid, the coiled up noose in her backpack would have alerted him.

Pig Face said to Bebe, "Hey, let's blow off the rest of the day. We can come back later. You wanna go get high?"

Bebe was silent, and Butters wasn't sure if she was preparing a response for him or for PF Chang. Actually, she was remembering what Principal Andrews had said: thin ice. But what the hell, she was already in this deep. "Sure, fuck it, let's get stoned."

They started off.

"Hey, can I come?" Butters asked tentatively.

Bebe looked him over while Pig Face glared. Finally she said all right. The three of them walked through the parking lot together. She pointed out the blow-up ad for the talent show. "You see that?" she told Butters. "The Artist Formerly Known as Lard Lad. I made a cardboard replica of him. Tonight we're gonna hang it from the crossbeams in the gym."

"Like a sign?" Butters asked.

"No, stupid, we're gonna hang him by his neck," Pig Face said.

* * *

Shelley hands Leb his sandwich and glances at the clock. Almost midnight, getting on time to close. She forgets to knock on wood, and immediately three customers her brother's age stumble in to replace the girls who just left. Just my luck, Shelley thinks; now she'll be here till one. She grabs some menus and heads over to where the teenagers are sitting by the creekstone fireplace. Shelley's only awake enough to imagine passive aggression. In real life she just says resignedly, "What do you guys want tonight?" They order coffee and she returns to the bar.

"Just your luck, huh?" Leb asks. He looks back at them once but doesn't seem interested. Three dumb punks. Shelley steps back into the kitchen for a second.

Over by the creekstone fireplace, it's Bebe, Butters, and Pig Face, all stoned. They just got through hanging Lard Lad from the rafters in the gym. Pig Face looks around the room. Bebe watches the fire. And Butters is watching her face.


	4. PDAs Mean A Lot Now

"PDAs Mean a Lot Now"

_Kyle x Stan, college  
_

* * *

It was midnight at the campus hookah bar. Stan and Kyle sat together on one edge of the wrought-iron table, and around them were Wendy, Craig, Token... an assortment of people who had happened to be awake. They were the only people on the veranda, which was strung with Christmas lights.

Kyle flexed his freezing fingers in his pockets. At this point he was too cold to say anything, but Stan was having one of his _on_ nights, which were always entertaining. He was cracking up Wendy and Craig and Token. It had been a fun night. None of them seemed to mind that he and Kyle were sitting together. At this point Kyle was pretty sure everyone knew they were gay, but nobody had ever mentioned it, least of all the lovebirds themselves.

Then this happened. Stan was laughing (his warm, deep laugh) when he turned and caught Kyle smiling at him. On impulse he leaned in for a kiss.

Kyle automatically tilted his mouth away, shocked, and just in time: he could feel Stan's nose against his own. For a second, neither of them could move; Kyle was too surprised, and Stan just didn't know what to do. Then, realizing how awkward it was to watch someone reject their boyfriend's kiss, Kyle leaned forward and gave him a quick peck and they both pulled away. He couldn't seem to speak or even think, so he just stared off speechlessly in the corner.

After a second, Token asked Wendy about something else, and the conversation moved on. Then Stan touched his arm and said, "Hey, come talk to me a minute?" Kyle blushed but got up with him.

They stood alone by the dumpsters. Knowing how embarrassed Kyle got anytime anyone knew he had feelings, Stan said, "Hey, sorry to so obviously pull you away from everybody so that we can discuss this like a couple homos, but if I don't say this, I won't be able to think about anything else all night, so. I'm sorry about the kiss."

"Stan, stop."

"I should've asked you before we came what you'd be comfortable with."

"It's not that big a deal."

"Kyle, a lot of people are uncomfortable with that. It's okay, I understand. I won't do it again, all right?"

Stan really wouldn't be able to think all night unless he was forgiven, so Kyle swallowed his pride. "All right," he said. "All's forgiven." Then he leaned in for that slow kiss, satisfying Stan had wanted at the table.

When they rejoined the group, Stan's energy and charisma had come back full force.

* * *

They walked alone back to the dorms, and Kyle felt himself tense a little when Stan took his hand. The street was safely dark, but then again it was also busy with other students. Worried that after the kiss earlier he would come off like an asshole if he yanked his hand away, he nervously lifted Stan's hand up to his chest, then let it fall again. Stan didn't let go.

"Sorry," Stan said, stroking Kyle's hand with his thumb. "Am I pushing my luck?"

Kyle was afraid someone walking by would say, "Faggots." But he didn't say so. "It just feels performative," he admitted.

A girl walked right by them, and Stan let Kyle remove his hand. But after she had passed, he felt Kyle's fingers find his own again. He was touched.

"It just feels like a small act of defiance," Kyle continued, like there'd been no interruption. "And hand-holding shouldn't be about defiance. It should be about hand-holding. You don't feel that way?"

Suddenly Stan stopped walking, and Kyle turned to look at him questioningly. Stan put his hands on Kyle's shoulders, then slid them up behind his neck... then pulled him in and kissed him. Kyle got so tense he shook and tried to pull away, but Stan wouldn't let him. Then Kyle felt Stan's tongue on his lips, and he opened them on instinct. Immediately Stan's tongue was in his mouth, giving him reassuring, slow caresses. Gradually Kyle relaxed. He felt that those butterflies in his stomach and that familiar stirring in his pants; he wrapped his arms around Stan and pressed close so he could feel it too. Somebody passed by, with no comment.

Then Stan pulled away. "Mm," he said, smiling. "I can taste the strawberry."

Kyle swallowed, speechless again.

Stan continued, "Now we've got that defiance out of our system..." He offered Kyle his hand. "Feel better?"

Kyle found himself grinning like an idiot, like he had after his first kiss.

They walked back to the dorm, fingers threaded together. Stan kissed the back of his boyfriend's hand. Kyle couldn't stop giggling.


End file.
